


bring walls down, hear my sound

by CapnJack



Series: the boy that stood by the sea [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Cobra Swan, F/M, Family, Modern AU, Swan Believer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9153256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: Ten happy years after the events of 'the boy that stood by the sea', and Henry Cassidy is no longer the little boy he used to be. Unused to the unpredictability of raising a teenager, his sudden wayward behaviour becomes a source of mystery to all the adults in his life. When things begin to spiral out of control, Killian and Emma must decide what sort of parents, and partners, they wish to be - of course, where Neal Cassidy is involved, nothing is ever simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so here it is! a sequel to 'the boy that stood by the sea'; I got hit by a plot idea that I just couldn't shake. I warn any and all readers coming from 'the boy', this fic is set to be a lot darker and angstier than the last. I can promise it'll end happily, but be prepared to be put through a ringer! mature themes will also be brought up but warnings will be placed at the beginning of each chapter. there is a tw for implied blood/major character injury in this chapter. (eep!) 
> 
> you don't have to have read the first story for this one to make sense, although it may make things easier. to any new readers the basic premise is thus: Henry Cassidy, the son of Neal Cassidy and an unnamed woman, has been raised for the past ten years by Killian Jones (with whom Neal shared custody until Henry was six) and Emma Swan, Neal's now ex-wife. 
> 
> without further ado, enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Henry Cassidy isn’t sure how old he was when he realised just how unconventional his upbringing had been. Somewhere between learning to pronounce Killian’s name properly and becoming wary of the words ‘ _I promise_ ’ falling from his father’s lips, he imagines. 

Of his earliest memories he knows the faces of Neal Cassidy and Killian Jones dominate, as do the backs of office doors and silhouettes of anonymous carers, scattered crayons and the fatigued pages of beloved fairy-tales. He remembers the Rabbit Hole, the dark crimson lighting the gloomy setting for many an adventure involving creeping past the bar, the rude jokes Will Scarlet would beg him to repeat later and the vivid pink concoctions Killian would conjure up just for him. He remembers his room in Killian’s old apartment, the day it became _his_ room — when he was six-years-old and Killian sheepishly confessed he would be staying there for the next ten days, and he’d taken the liberty of moving in a few of his favourite books, although he’d taken out the old lamp even though it belonged to the Milah he was meant to marry because he knew Henry found it scary. He remembers sitting alone at parent-teacher conferences and playing with the pens on the edge of Miss Blanchard’s desk. He remembers being with his father at Franklin Park, sitting perched atop his shoulders as they blew kisses and made funny faces at the giraffes. 

He remembers Emma Swan. 

He remembers Emma Swan and how scared she was to touch him. He remembers how she made him pancakes for the mornings he awoke to find his father gone, he remembers every afternoon she was _never_ late picking him up from school. He remembers Emma Swan and the courage she managed to muster, the bravery she found inside herself, the moment she decided she would no longer be _nothing_.

He remembers the day she drove two-hundred miles just to be with him again. To be with him and Killian.

He remembers the way the ocean had crashed against the sand, the way the lights from his father’s car had cast long, petrifying shadows across the dirt and up to the house. He remembers Killian and Emma clinging to each other tightly and he remembers the way his heart had pounded against his ribcage while fear had clutched at him like ice. He remembers making his father cry.

Henry Cassidy remembers the moment he realised, somewhere in his youthful heart, that although he loved his father with all he had, he could never fully rely on him. 

And more than anything, Henry had wanted to be safe.

He remembers the months that had followed, moving back into Killian’s apartment, watching with wonder as he and Emma Swan fell in love. _Real_ love, not like the way his father had loved her with half of his heart and one hand behind his back. He remembers waiting for his father to pick him up only for him to never come, he remembers his seventh birthday and the cake and the streamers and the teary phone call from the only person in the world who couldn’t make it past their shame to come. 

He remembers the next time he saw him, four months after a beach in Maine. 

_I just wanted to… decide, how I wanted us to be, going forward. How to do what’s best for you. I actually, um, got a job offer for something more stable, so I wouldn’t be travelling nearly as much — but it’s based in New York and I’ve been beating myself up about what…_

He remembers the way his eyes had shone like starlight. 

_You know what I’m trying to say, right buddy? I want you to stay here. With Killian. I want you to live with Killian for always and I want to know if you think that’s okay._

Life moved quickly, after that. 

Neal started living in New York and he visited whenever he could or Henry could go to him if his schedule was bad but the timing was good, and Killian kept working at the Rabbit Hole and he’d spend his nights with Grace in Jefferson’s apartment above the bar and after a year Emma moved in and when he was eight they bought him his first bicycle and he broke his arm playing soccer when he was ten and that summer he spent three weeks in California on holiday with Neal and another two in Storybrooke where he perfected his sailing technique and when he was thirteen Killian let him take out the _Jewel_ by himself with Roland who always looked at him like he was God’s gift to the earth and Emma introduced him to August who taught him how to write and when he started high school Neal moved to California permanently and it was hard and it hurt but they were okay — and he wrote _stories_ , and he dreamed them, and he lived them as they were committed to paper by a magic quill with the power to grant every deserving person a happy ending. 

He isn’t sure how old he was when he realised just how unconventional his upbringing had been. Somewhere between learning to pronounce Killian’s name properly and becoming wary of the words ‘ _I promise_ ’ falling from his father’s lips. 

But somewhere in there, Henry Cassidy had grown up safe. And that was all he’d ever wanted. 

-/-

Until it wasn’t.

(Ten long years later, and — well. His priorities might have changed.)

-/-

They’ve been driving in dead silence for exactly twenty-three minutes. 

Killian knows this because his eyes have flickered to the dashboard exactly twenty-three times each time the digital display changes, before darting sideways to try and gauge a reaction from the boy in the passenger seat. As with the twenty-two prior times he has found himself doing this, regardless of his attention the passenger’s position remains unchanged. Turned away from him and staring fixedly out of the window, his posture can only be described as rigid as he watches the street lamps flicker past with a resolute apathy.

Determined to play his own cards pretty close to his chest, the only release of the energy humming through him that Killian permits is his fingers tapping a restless beat against the wheel. His mind is racing, has been since he received that voicemail from David over an hour ago, but he refuses to break the silence first. He wants to wait. He wants to hear it from the lad’s own mouth. An explanation, an attempt to vindicate himself. Any indication of how Killian should be feeling about any of this — anything at all. 

His heart hurts with the force of his expectation. 

Henry Cassidy doesn’t say a word. 

_Hi, Killian? Never thought I’d say this, but when you or Emma get a free moment tonight I’m going to need you down at the station to come pick up Henry. No bail necessary, easiest ROR I ever got through. Please don’t panic — he’s fine. Talk to you when I can._

He steers the old yellow bug into the parking lot underneath their building, having only a minor disagreement with the gear shift as it tried to battle his request to slip into the reverse, and eventually they come to a stop in their usual parking space. The engine dies as Killian slips the keys from the ignition. 

Twenty-five minutes of silence. 

For a moment they continue to sit there, the air between them thick with tension. Gone are the days when Henry would precociously fill any empty space with whatever inane thought had just jumped into his mind, and Killian can’t quite work out from which of them he learnt to be so guarded. The worst thing is, it could have been all three. 

Finally he sighs, lifting a hand to scratch behind his ear, and he suddenly can’t bear it any longer. 

“So, are we going to talk about —?”

He barely makes it halfway through the sentence before Henry has flung open the door to the bug, clambered out and slammed it shut behind him. The sound of his footsteps ricochets across the concrete until he reaches the stairs, and then Killian is plunged into silence once more. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply and lets his head fall back against the head rest. 

Tonight he picked his boy up from jail. 

He roils in the stench of failure, and lets it consume him. 

-/-

There’s something about Emma that will always love the Rabbit Hole, and it has nothing to do with the free drinks. 

She’d only been a tender twenty-three when she’d entered the bar for the first time, practically dragged in by Henry despite her misgivings, and not much had changed since. The dim red glow emitted by the neon lights remains the same, along with the warm atmosphere and even the crowd of regulars that liked to cluster by the corner of the counter had barely moved in ten years. A pool table and a jukebox still stand on one side of the room, even if both look a little more battered over years of use, and the maroon leather seats in the booths have only become more uncomfortable with the passage of time. 

Despite it all, there is something familiar about this place that she can’t help but love. This was the first place Emma had ever told anyone about the child she’d given up for adoption at seventeen. The first place she’d let herself be reckless; if she was honest, probably the place she’d started to fall in love with Killian Jones. At the time he’d only been a bartender, all shy smirks over the counter while he slipped her drinks on his own tab as they stumbled through the first few months of their romance. A little less than traditional few months, given she’d also been methodically working through the stages of a divorce from Neal Cassidy. 

Since then Killian had become the manager of the Rabbit Hole, keeping the place running while Jefferson franchised the business and annexed a few other old bars across Boston. With Emma’s bail bonds work not always dependable, it had become their primary source of income. Truthfully, something about the place had become home.

Sometimes she still isn’t sure how she found it, but it’s hers. She put down roots and it was worth it. 

Although, of course, it’s not just the nostalgia that makes the Rabbit Hole worth coming to, it’s the new friends acquired over the years — Emma and Killian like to accredit themselves with introducing David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard some six years back. As Henry had continued to progress through school Emma had found herself becoming firm friends with one of his teachers at Hopper’s Elementary, Mary Margaret, while Killian had met David after the latter moved to the area and chose the bar as his new watering hole. Killian had complained about a lot of aspects of working as a bartender, but the capacity for meeting great new people had never been one of them. 

When the pair of them finally came up with the bright idea to introduce Mary Margaret and David — well. It was true love from the first night she accidentally walked home with his wallet instead of her purse. 

Sitting across from them in a booth, David’s arm lazily slung around his wife’s shoulder, Emma takes a long minute to appreciate just how far she’s come — she has a family now, and not just Henry and Killian. She’s made herself something to be proud of. 

Emma is jolted from her thoughts by Mary Margaret clicking her tongue loudly, shaking her head in amused disbelief. 

“I still can’t believe he stole a _boat_.” 

Only a week since Henry’s famed Grand Theft Marina, and it’s still a hot topic of conversation among her friends. 

“Hasn’t said a word about it since it happened, either,” Emma shrugs, reaching for her beer and taking a sip. “Killian grounded him for like a million years and he’s just — going along with it. He goes to school, he comes home, he sits in his room for hours and only ever comes out for food.” 

“Wow.”

“And besides, it was a yacht.” At Mary Margaret’s raised eyebrows Emma attempts a nonchalant shrug. “Won’t catch any kid I helped raise stealing some average crap bucket.” 

Mary Margaret tried her best not to look amused. “Right from the wharf?”

“Nearly made it out the harbour before anyone knew what was happening.” 

David, a cop for the local precinct and one of the officers linked to Henry’s arrest, sighs wearily. “You don’t have to look so proud of this, Emma.” 

Emma tilts her beer towards him in a salute. “Kid’s a hell of a captain.” 

“You and Killian spend way too much time together,” Mary Margaret snorts. 

“Kid’s earned himself a criminal record,” David insists, “he endangered not just his own life but the lives of all the kids with him. It’s nothing to laugh over.”

To her credit, Emma tries to sober her expression up as much as she can, but she can’t help the fact that she’s found the situation so ludicrously hilarious ever since Killian picked him up from _the slammer_ , as she’s taken to calling it. To her knowledge, Henry and some friends were looking for some slightly more vivacious methods of entertainment, and as he’d been learning to sail yachts since he was old enough to try he’d taken matters into his own hands, pinched a boat from the wharf and taken it for a joy ride. No one was harmed, everything had worked out fine — it was only bad luck that had the owner realising the boat was gone before they had a chance to return it. 

As far as Emma’s concerned, there are far worse things to be caught doing at sixteen. She feels a hell of a lot better knowing Henry is pulling stunts like _this_ instead of the kinds of antics _she_ had gotten up to in her youth. 

“It’s just a phase, y’know?” She dismisses David’s concerns with a wave of her hand. “I remember what it was like being that age. Well, I remember it very differently to the way Killian does, which is why he’s freaking out. I may not have been stealing luxury yachts to impress pretty girls but you can bet your ass I wouldn’t have been able to get off with just a promise to appear that fast.” 

David smirks around his bottle. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

They’ve even managed to snag a fast approaching court date to discuss the case; having a man on the inside certainly has its perks. Having _David_ on the inside comes with the added assurance that everything would be done absolutely legally and above board. It wasn’t as if David understood anything else. 

Emma sighs, running a hand through her hair. “We just need to let him make his own mistakes, yeah? Grow on his own. Be wild, be crazy, steal a few boats or spend a night or two in juvie." At that, she taps her nails against the bottle thoughtfully. "Maybe we should've left him?"

Mary Margaret is aghast. "Emma!"

"What?" She throws back innocently. "He could've learnt something."

"Like how to jack a car?"

Emma chooses not to acknowledge that particular denouncement of her own somewhat tumultuous childhood she'd once shared with Mary Margaret over a few too many glasses of wine - it was _one_ car, _one_ time, and it was already stolen anyway so as far as Emma is concerned she's off the hook. And besides, she'd ripped a VIN number from somewhere she couldn't remember and had been driving it legit for over a decade. It was _one_ time.

"Like how to check his privilege," she says coolly. "I love Henry more than anything in the world, and I'm not saying he's always had it easy, but acting out like this?" She shakes her head. "All it's going to do is take years off Killian's life." And he didn't deserve that, at least not in her eyes. Not after how much of his life he’d already given up to take care of that boy.

David offers her an amused look. “I think admitting to wanting your stepson to spend the night in jail officially pushes you into ‘wicked stepmother’ territory.” 

“Ha, ha,” Emma snorts, flicking a peanut in his direction. “I’m just saying, he’s got it good right now. The sooner reality kicks in and he realises how damn great home cooked meals and a family that loves you is, the sooner he can come right back. And we’ll forgive him.” She frowns, a certain melancholy settling over her shoulders. The sooner Henry, _their_ Henry, comes home, the better. “Of course we will.” 

Her friends seem to notice the slight change in her demeanour, and their expressions shift into something more understanding. “What does Killian think?” David asks.

Emma sighs heavily. “Killian thinks…” What _did_ Killian think? When he slipped into bed too haggard and exhausted to talk, or sat alone in his study for hours on end? “Killian still thinks he can cart Henry around on the back of his bike, buy him a present at the science museum and everything will sort itself out.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m with Killian,” Mary Margaret lets out a long breath, “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around little _Henry_ doing this.” 

“Not so little anymore,” David muses. 

“But you were his elementary teacher,” Emma points out, “it’s kinda normal for you to always think of him as a fourth-grader. Killian’s just… not adjusting.”

Understatement of the century. 

“Have you told Neal about what happened?”

At David’s question Emma’s entire posture sags, and she offers a weak shrug. “Not yet,” she says, and she takes a moment to finish off the rest of her drink as a familiar feeling of misgiving begins to settle in her gut.

“But I guess we’ll have to.” 

-/-

The apartment is quiet once Emma returns, and she flips on the light in the hall before slipping out of her coat. “Anybody home?” she calls, pausing for only a moment before receiving no response. Killian is likely working late at the Rabbit Hole; she hadn’t seen him during his shift, which usually only happened when he was avoiding her, and is only mildly frustrating because she has no idea what exactly they’re fighting over. Sometimes it just seems like they can’t get any conversation to go right since he left in her yellow bug to pick up Henry from the station. Since then he’s been — distant. Off. It jars, given how perfectly they’ve fallen into step for the last ten years, especially since she’s not even sure she can remember a time where she wasn’t sure what Killian was thinking. Part of her idly wonders if maybe after all this time they’ve just run out of things to talk about, but she knows it isn’t really about her. Henry’s been the centre of Killian’s world for as long as she’s known him, and with him acting up its thrown everything out of balance. 

Emma spots a strip of light under the door to Henry’s room, and with her conversation with David and Mary Margaret still fresh she feels an irrepressible need to talk to him. She knocks on his door, but on getting no answer she pushes it open.

Henry is sat on his bed, long legs splayed out in front of him as he reads a book, large headphones covering his ears that likely block sound entirely. Still, he looks up when she enters and she can see the moment he slams his walls up.

It hurts, to think how much of him is like looking in a mirror. 

_Did she make him this way?_

“Hey,” she says, with a small wave, closing the door with a click behind her. 

“Hi.” Henry slips the headphones off until they’re slung around his neck, but leaves the book open in his lap. 

“So, uh,” she tucks some of her hair behind her ears and tries to keep her tone light. “How long is the freeze out going to last?” The going to school, the coming home and the only emerging for food; it’s a joke, a jovial story to tell her friends, but it bothers her. Of course it does. Henry’s always been hers too, at least a part of him. A small, precious part of him that is slipping through her fingers. 

Henry offers a callous shrug. “How long did Killian say I was grounded for?”

“His accent gets _pretty_ thick when he’s pissed, but I think he said somewhere around the couple of centuries mark.”

The boy scoffs, making a show of picking up the book again. “Better buy a parka.”

“Henry,” she says, and it’s something soft and urgent. He looks up. “Just — talk to me. Please.” 

“There’s nothing to say.” 

She always knows when he is lying. The way she is searching his expression must flicker across her features because he rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion once he notices. He’s known the sensation of being caught in a lie by her too many times.

“I’m not allowed to go out, I can’t meet my friends, I’m stuck in this apartment until I’m rheumatic and you want me to _chat?_ ” Henry shakes his head in amused disbelief. Emma’s gaze drops to her hands, but she notices him shut the book softly — even in his agitated state, he can’t find it within himself to be unkind to something leather-bound. “But look — I know this isn’t you. This is Killian and I get that, but if he wants to talk to me he can stop sending you as an emissary.”

“I’m not Killian’s _emissary_ ,” she retorts sharply.

“Would you prefer his _attaché?_ ” 

Emma’s jaw tightens. “Are you trying to pick a fight, kid?”

Henry matches her glare evenly. “I’m trying to read.” There’s fire there, her fire. Sometimes she wonders if she poured too much of herself into him over the years when she thought she was doing the right thing — with a sudden vibrancy she finds herself in exactly Killian’s mind set. Something fierce wrestles with her, making her miss the sweet-tempered boy who had hugged at her legs, who had fervently informed her she was _never nothing_ when she felt lower than the ground. She wants him back, not this stranger looking at her like she is nothing more than an appendage to Killian Jones. 

A humiliating sting begins to surge behind her nose, the lower half of her vision blurring. 

Henry’s expression could have softened in that moment but she’s too worked up to notice. 

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she says and abruptly stands, departing the room as quickly as possible. Home, she thinks. It’s hers. If she can stop it from crumbling to the ground. 

-/-

The door shuts quietly behind her and Henry imagines it would’ve been better if she’d let it slam. 

He stares at the old wood for more minutes than he can count, muted music still blasting from the tinny headset around his neck, and with a sudden agitation he rips the headphones over his head and hurls them at the ground. Nothing comes out the way he wants it to, nothing shapes its way into the words he needs. 

He doesn’t want to make Emma Swan cry. 

After a few seconds more he stands and walks over to the cabinet, pulling out one of the old drawers and rummaging inside. Beneath notebooks and craft materials he hasn’t touched in months his fingers close around the small box he is looking for, and he tugs it out as carefully as he can. Blowing off the dust, he slips the quill from its case and stares at it thoughtfully. The nib has been worn down from years of use, the colour all but faded from its casing to a muddied brown from the old, vivid chestnut. He runs his fingers across the ornate wooden carving at the top, sighing heavily as he does so when the memory of the moment he received it comes flooding back. His father, Maine. Six-years-old.

_It's a quill, it’s magic. It’s, uh, for telling stories. You still like telling stories, right? Yeah. Yeah, I thought so. Maybe — maybe one day you can write me a happy ending. Is that dumb? It’s dumb, isn’t it? Yeah, well. I love you, buddy. Always have always will._

For the first time in a long time, Henry considers putting pen to paper. Then his phone buzzes from where he’d left it lying on his bed, and the quill is discarded as he reaches for it. It’s Malcolm.

_You + Felix + me at the rec, 20 mins. Unless ur already past curfew? Lol_

Emma won’t come back in tonight, he’s certain of it even if it makes his heart clench. Killian never even bothers to try. All the same, Henry locks his door before he opens his window and slips out onto the fire escape. He’ll be back before either of them notice, he assures himself, just before he disappears into the night.

-/-

_The door to their apartment is unlocked and that already sets off warning bells in Killian’s mind._

_“Emma?” he calls, frantically. “Emma?”_

_He pushes open all the doors, a hurricane of panic and hysteria, but he can’t calm down. Not after that phone call, not after the utter desperation in her plea._

_“Emma?”_

_It’s then he notices something deep crimson seeping out from the door of the bathroom and his heart fills with dread. His feet are moving before his mind can catch up and he has flung open the doorway before he can even think — and she’s there._

_Everything is stained scarlet, it’s all he sees._

_Her eyes are like black glass._

_“I — I’m sorry, I don’t —”_

_She opens her arms and only blood pours forth._

-/-

Killian awakes with a start, skin burning with a sheen of sweat and his throat almost entirely closed. The duvet is too warm, the cocoon that had comforted him the previous night suddenly too stifling, and he struggles to kick it away as he wheezes in the pursuit of oxygen. In seconds he has flung himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, breathing hard and cradling his head as he dizzily tries to keep his eyes open. 

When he closes them, all he can see is her. The stained bathroom tiles, the acrid air. A fervent appeal.

_Don’t make me go through this again._

Beside him, Emma stirs. When he feels the gentle touch of her hand at his back he knows she’s attempting to push through her grogginess and work out what has roused him. The sky is still dark as pitch outside, the faint orange glow of the outside lamplights only teasing at the bottom of the curtain and Killian glances at the clock on his nightstand as he fights to regain control. 3:53am.

“It’s alright,” he rasps, wrestling to keep his voice even, “it was just a dream, go back to sleep.” 

Her brows knit together in a drowsy concern, so Killian bends sideways to kiss her temple. Instantly she relaxes, her hand dropping to the mattress as he adjusts the blanket to better cover her. He thinks only briefly about joining her, but his breaths are only just starting to come out slower and he doesn’t want to worry her, so instead he chooses to stand. He creeps as lightly as he can across their bedroom before emerging into the empty hallway. 

It’s been a while since he’s dreamt of that day. 

He stops in the bathroom first to splash a little water on his face in an attempt to cool down, his cheeks still burning as his heart rate slowly races back to normal speed. In the mirror he can see clearly the dark rings under his eyes, the drop of his shoulders; it’s been like this for weeks, this constant weariness. But it’s more than that. Along his hairline he can pick out a few strands of silver working their way into his usual black and with it comes that weight of something _mortal_ around him. He’s spent a few years now closer to forty than thirty, and he thinks it must be beginning to show. The lines across his skin aren’t all hard-won — many of them are even unwelcome. Ten years, he thinks; ten incredible, perfect years. His happy ending. 

Perhaps there is a reason most of Henry’s fairy-tales cut to black after that. 

On his way to the kitchen Killian pauses only briefly by Henry’s door, but hears no sound from within. He considers trying the handle, peeking in on the boy much as he would’ve done when he was younger, but the notion that it might be locked crashes down on him like an anvil. He isn’t sure he can handle that kind of rejection, not tonight. Not with the vision of her still flashing before his eyes.

He pads into the kitchen and reaches for a glass, heading first for the tap before thinking better of it and reaching for the cupboard with the rum. 

Some nightmares can’t be fought with words. He knows that better than most. 

-/-

“We have to tell Neal,” Emma says as they turn into the tinned goods aisle, Killian pushing the shopping cart between them as he browses for groceries.

He hums gently, hand hovering between two brands of canned tomatoes. He’s not fully paying attention to Emma’s chatter, she usually isn’t all that interested whenever he does the shopping. Truthfully, he’s not particularly sure why she insisted on accompanying him on this particular occasion, but he’s grateful all the same. Dressed only in sweats and with her hair swept up into a messy bun, Emma Swan is still one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever laid eyes on. He finds he has to remind himself on a daily basis that she’s stayed with him these ten years — considers himself lucky, even, a mere mortal to have captured a goddess. Time has done nothing to age her like it has him. 

“Tell him what?”

“About Henry’s Grand Theft Marina.”

Killian throws her a reproachful look. “I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”

Despite him, a smile plays at the corner of Emma’s mouth that he tries valiantly not to mirror. “What should I call it, then?”

“Criminal mischief in the third degree?” Killian suggests, finally settling on the slightly more expensive brand and pushing the cart forward.

Emma sighs. “Killian…”

“A Class A misdemeanour?”

They should call it what it is, there’s no point beating around the bush. Tomorrow Henry will go to court with their hired legal representation and receive his sentence from a judge. That’s all there is to it. He turns to see Emma hasn’t moved, and instead folded her arms over her chest. 

“That’s the last time I let you watch ‘ _What’s My Crime_ ’,” she mutters.

Killian merely grins, even if he doesn’t quite feel like smiling. “But it’s such quality entertainment.” 

“Relatable, too,” Emma raises an eyebrow, plucking some hideous looking tinned sausages from the shelf and slipping them into the cart. Once she’s turned away Killian reaches in and puts them back as subtly as he can manage — there are reasons he usually does this by himself, and Emma’s unsupervised eating habits are some of them. Part of him is certain it’s only ten years of him being in charge of the stocked fridge that have stopped both her and Henry from weighing over two hundred pounds. 

“I mean it,” she says, a few moments into their turn into the cereals aisle. “Neal should know.” 

Killian hangs his head, lifting a finger to scratch behind his ear. They haven’t heard from Neal in a good few weeks, and he’s due for an extended visit to Henry next month, but other than that he was hoping to avoid all contact. It isn’t that they don’t see eye to eye anymore, quite the opposite — since Neal moved to California and pulled his life together they’ve all been getting along swimmingly. Killian and Emma had even been fortunate enough to meet his long-term girlfriend last year, one that he’s been dating now for nearly four years. It’s just the unadulterated _trust_ that Killian doesn’t want to lose. The one he sees in Neal’s eyes every time he leaves Henry with them. He doesn’t think he can stand to watch that light go out. 

“I know, I know,” he replies at Emma’s imploring look, “telling him just… feels like admitting failure.”

“It’s not a failure.” Emma picks up a box of Lucky Charms and holds them up to her chin with her most innocent look. Killian clicks his tongue, not a fan of the sugary cereals either. “It’s a _Class A misdemeanour_.”

With a final roll of his eyes he grabs the box and dumps it amongst the rest of their shopping. “I’m being serious.” 

“So am I,” she insists, and Killian pushes past her. She bounds after him at the side of the cart. “C’mon Killian, it’s not the end of the world. Every kid’s got to make mistakes.” Killian’s mouth twists into a frown, and Emma lays a hand on his arm. Most kids, maybe. Not _Henry_. “You really think he wouldn’t have done this if he was living with Neal?”

Killian shrugs, trying to focus his attention on the shelves. He knows she’s trying to sound reasonable, and perhaps there’s something petulant in his resoluteness, but still.

“Maybe.”

“He would,” Emma says gently, squeezing his arm. “Pretty girls to impress will exist no matter whom he lives with.”

Killian rubs his brow; regardless of anything she tells him, he just can’t wrap his head around it. “But there are much better ways to do that,” he points out. 

“Yes,” Emma wraps her arms around one of his and flutters her eyelashes, “like letting them buy pop tarts and burritos.”

He laughs, he can’t help it, and her attempt at levity is well received. It’s one of the many things he loves about her, her infallible ability to pull him from any dark direction of his thoughts. They’ve spent so many years together, but her capacity for reading his mood down to the wire remains unchanged. So, as per her expectation, he makes a show of wrinkling his nose. 

“Not to eat together, I hope?”

Emma gives him a mock-offended look. “It’s a full day’s sustenance.” 

“I can’t believe you really like that rubbish.” Taking his censure as a victory, Emma darts away to pluck a box of pop tarts from the shelf. 

“It’s a good thing you only have to like me then,” she teases, waving the treat in front of him, “which you do.” 

Killian leans forward to kiss her soundly on the mouth. “Very much.” 

“Good,” she says against his lips, before leaning backwards. “So pop tarts or you steal me a yacht, which is it going to be?”

With only a raised eyebrow as his response, Killian takes the box from her and chucks it into the cart. 

-/-

“Neal? Hi, it’s Emma.” 

Killian has resolutely refused to take any part in the whole _Telling Neal_ business, which even though Emma finds juvenile and completely unnecessary, she concedes. He has spent so much of the last few weeks putting himself under so much extra strain, she figures taking the brunt of what will probably be Neal’s displeasure is a small price to pay for his peace of mind. She remembers being groggily roused by his getting up last night, and she also knows he only returned to bed once dawn had begun to break while reeking of rum, even if she chose not to bring it up come morning. His nights are troubled, she knows that. She just wishes he would tell her why. After a decade together she’s entirely unused to any lack of complete honesty from him.

“Emma, hey!” Comes Neal’s distorted voice through the speaker. “How are you? And Killian?”

“I’m fine,” she says, a little too quickly, “and Killian — he’s fine. Really fine, we’re all fine.” She squeezes her eyes shut in irritation at herself, and spots Killian’s smirk as he lounges on their bed. Emma throws a pillow at him. 

Apparently she isn’t fooling Neal either. “Uh, say it one more time and I’ll believe you.” 

“Sorry, um,” she wants nothing more than to start the conversation over without running her mouth off from the very start. A frown curls her features downwards. “How are things with you?”

“They were pretty great until about twenty seconds ago. What’s up?” His voice is immediately laced with concern and Emma bites her lip, not really sure how to begin. “Is it Henry?” His volume rises in panic. “Has something happened?”

Flustered, Emma asks, “have you heard from him recently?”

“He texted me yesterday about next month,” the response is clipped and short. “Emma, just tell me what happened.”

She tugs at the end of her hair, throwing Killian a helpless glance. Her partner merely shrugs and motions for her to continue, and fuelled by a mild exasperation at the blasé gesture she decides to jump right in. 

“Henry, he, erm… well, last week he — he stole a boat.” 

Silence for a few painful seconds, then — 

“He _what?_ ”

“He stole a yacht, went for a bit of a joyride,” now the lid is off the words can’t stop flowing, and she hears himself piling on detail after detail into the little handset. “He’s going to court tomorrow but we’re pretty — we’re pretty confident it’ll just be community service, y’know, no criminal history, great character recommendations.” None of them were actually genuinely concerned about jail time, not for a boy with no prior offences and, at least until recently, spent much of his leisure time working for extra credit or writing stories for school. “He’s fine, really, but we just felt… you should know.”

She waits for Neal’s response with bated breath, can feel Killian tense up beside her.

“Henry… stole a boat.” 

Neal’s tone is difficult to read. 

“Yep.” 

“And he’s going to court.” 

Emma rubs her brow carefully. “Yeah.” 

“And you’re…” The voice flounders for a moment. “You’re only telling me this _now?_ ” 

“Neal —”

“This is my _son_ , you can’t — you can’t keep this kinda stuff from me!” 

Emma lets out a frustrated breath. “I mean, we were actually sort of hoping _he_ would be the one to —”

“You’re supposed to be looking after him, both of you!” Neal explodes. “What’s he doing, running around breaking the _law?_ ”

“Neal, you don’t understand —”

“No _you_ don’t understand!” Neal’s voice is far fiercer than she’d imagined and Emma winces, brushing her hair behind her ears as she listens to the, albeit probably justified, tirade. “He was supposed to be okay with you, he was supposed to be _better_. You think I trust you two to raise my son so you can call me up, _late_ I might add, to tell me about fucking court dates?” 

She can feel her heart sinking in her chest, and she thinks perhaps before this moment she hadn’t really understood Killian’s position at all, hadn’t realised just how much they had been letting Neal down. For years he had relied on them, entrusted them with his only child; sacrificed his own chance to raise him because he’d thought with _them_ he would have a stable, put-together upbringing. Something he couldn’t provide, but they’d promised they could. 

Henry wasn’t supposed to be flunking school, running with the wrong crowds, getting caught up in petty theft. Sweet, adorable Henry Cassidy wasn’t supposed to be doing any of that. 

“You were supposed to be what was best for him!” 

_Where had they gone wrong?_

Because they had, truthfully. Long ago they’d all come to the conclusion that Henry would be better off with them, and yet. Tomorrow he was going to court. Events seemed to speak for themselves. 

That sense of crippling _failure_ paralyses her and suddenly she can’t get a word out, a wave of emotion rushing up beneath her and she covers her mouth with her hand to stop a gasp from spilling out. 

_He was supposed to be okay with you._

Killian must have seen the standstill in her expression as she is suddenly tugged from whatever shroud that encompasses her as the phone is being taken out of her hand. She reaches quickly to wipe her eyes but knows that he saw everything, identifies it in the concerned line above his brow and the uneasy look he gives her even as he speaks into the handset. 

“Neal? It’s Killian.” 

Something incomprehensible blasts from the receiver and Killian flinches, but swallows it down as soon as it appeared. 

“I know you’re upset, we all are. I think what’s more important is working out what we do going forward.” Neal appears to coalesce as Killian’s expression morphs into one of relief, and for her benefit he begins repeating whatever Henry’s father is saying. “You’re at the New York office for a couple of weeks, but you think you can put in a transfer to Boston? Permanently?”

Emma’s gaze immediately snaps up, giving Killian an indignant look. Neal can’t _honestly_ believe his being nearby would help Henry in the slightest, can he? She expects Killian’s face to mirror hers, some similar level of outrage, but instead she finds something neutral there that’s difficult for her to read.

He looks away from her then, avoiding her scrutiny as he stands from the bed. “I think that’d be a great idea. I’m sure Henry would appreciate it.” 

Emma practically cries out in protest, throwing another pillow at Killian who brushes it off with a frown, stepping out of the bedroom to continue the call and leaving Emma reeling. They were a united front on this, had been since Neal had made the permanent move to California — even recently while things had been good, they’d agreed to stop playing with Henry like this, to draw a line. There were certain issues Neal would never be able to compromise on and they couldn’t dangle his father’s permanent presence in front of Henry only to rip it away again, it had happened one too many times and all it did was leave the boy frustrated and heartbroken. What on earth possessed Killian to think that this would be a _good_ idea?

She is still mulling it over with disbelief when Killian finally re-enters the room, dropping her phone onto the bed and taking in a deep breath, preparing himself for her ire. 

“Are you out of your _mind?_ ” she gapes, throwing up her hands. “You _know_ what Neal’s visits do to Henry, how is this going to make him any less volatile?”

Killian’s jaw is clenched and she knows it means he’s made up his mind. “I’m running out of options here, Emma. Maybe Neal can achieve something here I clearly can’t.” 

“You haven’t even tried!”

“Oh no?” Killian raises his eyebrows and the action infuriates her. “And what would you have me do?” 

She’s fed up of his sulking, the short temper and the irritability; yes, he’s hurt, they’re _all_ hurt, but it isn’t like he’s been firing off idea after idea to prevent another future court date. 

“Talk to him, dammit,” Emma scowls, “I know he wants you to, just sit him down and actually _talk_.” 

Killian stalks over to their dresser, flings open a drawer and begins rummaging around for god knows what. 

“We do talk.”

“No, you ground him and ask him about school. I’ve had more stimulating conversations with my car.”

“I _can’t_ , Emma,” he finally emerges with what he’s looking for, a set of cufflinks that apparently he’s decided need polishing at this moment. For a moment his fists clench around the case and the cloth, and in an instant the fight goes out of him. “I just — can’t.” 

Emma stands, taking quick steps over to him and resting her hands over his. “He needs you to.”

Killian shuts his eyes tight. “I’m losing him, Em.”

“Look,” she tugs at his wrists, leads him back over to the bed to sit down. “I knew kids who pulled stunts like this — heck, I was one. Henry is only acting out because he wants your attention about something.” 

“About _what?_ ” Killian splutters, and when his eyes finally meet hers she can see the moisture there, spot the desperation and the circles under his eyes. “When have I _ever_ looked the other way?” 

Emma shrugs, helplessly. They aren’t answers she can give him. 

“I don’t know, but there’s something we’re missing. All we have to do is find out what it is.” She presses a soft kiss against his temple. “Together.” Killian’s hands find hers and he squeezes tightly, and she knows at least for a moment she’s managed to quell whatever storm is raging behind his eyes.

She just doesn’t know how long the peace can last. 

-/-

Twenty-five hours of unpaid community service, to be completed over a maximum of two months. That’s what Henry Cassidy receives once the gavel drops. It’s clear from his expression that he’s relieved — none of them had been concerned, not exactly, but there was nothing quite like the actual reassurance of everything going exactly the way you’d hoped. When Henry emerges in his suit and tie, he hugs Emma first and murmurs all the apologies he can into her ear. Killian smiles tightly and pats him between his shoulders, and he just about manages to persuade himself that Emma was right. It was all an anomaly, he was just acting out, he needed to get it out of his system and now he’s fine. 

He’s sixteen, for Christ’s sake. Perhaps Killian has been a little hard on him. 

This is what he convinces himself is true, and for a few days he attempts to regain a modicum of peace, a semblance of normality — but with Henry’s grounding still without specified end, tensions between man and boy are just as frayed as they have been for months. Still, he thinks they’re on the up. 

Until he gets the phone call from Henry’s school. 

-/-

As he taps his cell to hang up the call, Killian feels something inside of him snap. 

All of the quiet acceptance, all of the weeks of muted words and strained tempers, nearly breaking his back in order to keep stepping on eggshells around the sixteen-year-old for fear of pushing him away too far. He’s spent so long in some state of suspended animation, already concerned that his actions have created _this_ and worried anything else he might do could send Henry tumbling over the edge. The edge of _something_. Across some line he’d so far avoided crossing. 

But now? He’s done being patient. 

Killian doesn’t even bother to knock as he throws open the door to Henry’s bedroom, the boy looking up at him startled from whatever he’d been watching on his laptop. He knows he should probably wait for Emma to return from work to get into this, but he’s far too riled up and needs somewhere to vent. 

“We need to talk.” 

He’s sure to keep his tone quiet and measured, as that’s when he knows he sounds his most dangerous. Before he turns to step back into the sitting room he can already see Henry scrambling to his feet. 

Even so, he tries to rally some bravado in the face of Killian’s fury. “Why, got something else you can stop me from doing?”

He barely bites away a retort at the remark, keeping his focus on the matter at hand.

“I was hoping you could explain to me why I got a call from your homeroom teacher today asking if you had an end date yet for your _work experience placement_.” Henry blanches, his lips parting; he’d always been a terrible liar growing up, and his guilt is written all over his face. There is no work experience placement. As far as Killian and Emma are concerned, Henry has been attending school as normal for the past two weeks. Apparently that is where their notes and the teachers don’t quite match up. “Are you cutting school?”

The boy merely stands there, caught, his fingers fumbling with the edge of his jumper. 

“Henry, answer me,” Killian presses. “Are you going to school?”

Finally the boy shrugs, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. His answer is clear. Killian has to take a deep breath to keep his temper in check.

“Why?”

It’s less of a question and more a demand for an explanation, his gaze hard and unrelenting.

Henry’s expression contorts into something hostile. “I hate it.” 

“Not good enough.” 

“Well I do!” he snarls. “I hate it, I hate all of it. The teachers and the condescension and the goddamn _algebra_ —”

“Watch your language.” 

Henry throws up his hands in frustration. “When am I ever going to use _algebra_ at any point in my life?”

“I don’t care, you do _not_ quit school,” Killian’s tone leaves little room for argument, firm but controlled. His temper wages war against the bare constraints he keeps it under, crashing into them in waves of fury that slowly begin to make cracks in his countenance. “I won’t allow it.” 

The sixteen-year-old is incredulous. “You won’t _allow_ it?” 

“What’s going _on_ , Henry?” he can’t help but plead, beg for some divine testimony that will explain to him what has happened to the little boy he raised. “Stealing boats, damaging property, playing truant — this isn’t you, this isn’t who you are!” 

“Right,” Henry scoffs, “like you’d have any idea who I am.”

He balks, eyebrows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry refuses to offer a response, folding his arms and determinedly looking away and something about it knocks the wind right out of him. Not _knowing_ Henry has never been the problem, it’s never been a problem for sixteen years. He runs a hand through his hair, totally uncertain of how to proceed — he’s also aware it’s probably only his clear aggravation that is keeping Henry rooted to the spot, a sensation that the discussion isn’t over rather than anything else. 

Killian clutches at something, anything, to keep him there. He’s frightened enough to admit he’s concerned that once he leaves, he might not come back. 

“You know what I think?” he starts, regaining his momentum, “I think it’s those friends of yours. Felix and the smarmy little bastard.” 

“ _Language_ ,” Henry glowers. 

Killian waves an irritated hand. “Bugger language!” Distantly, somewhere outside the ringing in his ears and the scarlet edge to his vision, Killian can hear a key being turned in the lock and the front door to the apartment swinging open — all the usual indicators of Emma’s return. He just can’t quite marry the two scenarios in his mind, greeting Emma and confronting Henry, and ends up paralysed between the pair of them. 

“His name is _Malcolm_.” 

“I don’t care!” he snaps. “They’re a bad influence and you’re not to see them again.” 

Henry’s jaw drops. 

“You can’t do that!” 

“Can’t do what?” Comes Emma’s voice as she walks into the sitting area, brows knitting together in concern — if the raised voices aren’t evidence enough, the defensive stance they’re both taking with regards to the other would have alerted her to the presence of an argument. She looks back and forth between the pair of them. “What can’t he do?" 

“Killian’s trying to ban me from seeing my friends.” 

“Henry, here, has decided he’s above full time education and has deigned not to appear for ten days.” 

Emma blinks in surprise. “ _What?_ ” 

“I hate school,” Henry rushes to interject vehemently, “I’m done with it.” 

“You’re done with _nothing_ ,” Killian barks. “You will go back to school and in two years’ time you will graduate and then you can do whatever the hell you want.” 

Emma takes a step closer to Henry, the corners of her mouth turned downwards in a frown, but it’s not the white hot animal that has overwhelmed Killian after months of allowing it to fester, and not for the first time and likely not for the last he’s astounded by her spirit, her level-head; her ability to be reasonable. It isn’t that Killian isn’t capable, just that the idea of Henry, their Henry, dropping out of school just because is enough for the air in his lungs and all rational thought to vanish from him entirely. 

“Henry,” Emma says gently, “you have to go back to school.” 

“Why?” he counters. “So I can become a _bartender?_ ” 

Killian’s anger surges and he takes a dangerous step closer. “I _manage_ the Rabbit Hole, _I_ call the shots, so I can pay for the things _you_ want!” He hadn’t simply tended bars for the last six years, he’d worked his ass off to keep Jefferson’s business running and he’d only stuck with it for so long because the pay was so good. Emma’s bail bonds work buoyed them significantly, but it was a sporadic source of income and entirely determinate on her success — the Rabbit Hole was stable, and stable was the one thing he had insisted on providing for Henry once he’d moved in with him full time. 

The idea that Henry had been looking down on him for it set his blood to boil. 

“You think books and CDs materialize out of thin air?” he growls. “The least you can do for us is bloody _stay in school_.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were keeping a tab!” 

“Look,” Emma speaks firmly, standing between them and raising her hands in an attempt to broker peace at the tempers flaring, before turning back to the boy. “High school is more than that, Henry, I promise. You can hate it all you want — hell, I did, but it’s a commitment. A commitment that will open so many more doors for you for the rest of your life.” 

Henry’s eyes narrow. “Because you know all about commitment, right? ‘Til death do you part’? Remind me how many months you bothered to stay married to my dad before running off with Killian?” 

Emma’s resolve remains like pure steel, but Killian can see the hurt that flashes across her face. “That’s not fair.” She’s impenetrable — and amazing. 

Killian, however, is not about to take a remark like that lying down. He points a threatening finger at him, ignoring the way it seems to shake. 

“You apologise to Emma. Now.” 

“No!” Henry shouts, “I won’t! You act like you’re saints, you act like you’re so much better than Dad, but _guess what?_ You’re just the same! You’re just as selfish, you don’t give a damn about what I want as long as I turn out how you like — at least Dad is honest, at least he owns the fact that he can’t muster enough of a paternal instinct to give a shit!” Fury has contorted Henry’s expression unlike anything Killian has seen before. “He wouldn’t try taking over my life or stopping me from seeing my _friends_.” 

“You think your dad is going to be thrilled about all this?” To his surprise it’s Emma who reacts first, spluttering with indignation. “He’s already pissed about the goddamn _boat_ thing —” 

“You _told_ him?” Henry howls. “I can’t believe you!” 

Killian recovers enough from the sixteen-year-old’s outburst to throw himself back into the fray. “You’re damn right we did — and you know what? You _will_ be going to school tomorrow, and the day after, and the sodding day after that, even if I have to walk you to the gates and pick you up like you’re bloody six years old again!” 

Henry throws up his hands in frustration. “I hate you!” 

“Well too bad,” Killian snaps, “because like it or not I _am_ your parent and until you’re eighteen you’ll do as I say!” 

“You are _not_ my dad!” 

The words hit the space between them with all the force of a freight train. 

Collision occurs, tiny fragments of shrapnel exploding into the ether and Killian feels assaulted by every single one. The fight slips out of him, the red slowly recedes from his vision and in the aftermath he can see Emma’s look of pain merging with her anger, can see Henry. Chest heaving, a myriad of emotions crosses the boy’s face. Uncertainty, rage, apprehension. Regret, maybe? Killian can’t tell if he’s searching for something the boy isn’t bothering to feel, clutching at any little indication that the violence of the remark was unintended. All he can hear is the harsh huff of his own breath and the blood pounding in his ears as he tries to keep the floor from moving from under him. 

If this is how he wants it to be? Fine. So be it. 

Killian takes three steps towards where Henry is standing, who instinctively takes a step back with something almost fearful in his expression. Another spike of pain surges from somewhere near Killian’s restless heart. 

“I’ll see you at six tomorrow morning,” he merely bites out. “I’ll give you a ride into class.” 

Then he reaches for where he’d slung his coat over the sofa, stalks to the door of the apartment and lets it slam shut behind him. 

-/- 

The crash of the front door trembling on its hinges causes Emma to wince, and she glances back at Henry, who can only stare in its wake. 

“Henry,” she starts, but he holds up a hand to stop her. 

“ _Don’t._ ” 

She flinches again when the door to his room echoes the first. 

-/- 

It’s well past ten o’clock at night when Neal’s doorbell goes, and he’s not expecting company. He’s been sat on the floor for the past two hours, surrounded by dossiers and files and the lingering sensation that this had all been a hell of a lot easier when he was twenty-five, just getting into the business and taking to it like a falcon to sky. Fourteen _long_ years later and he can scarcely make it through an evening’s work without at least a glass of wine balanced carefully on pieces of paper strewn across his coffee table. If he’s honest, the doorbell is a welcome distraction, even if it’s entirely out of the blue. 

Since he moved to California this apartment in New York was barely lived in, but he’d kept it for the sake of having somewhere to crash if he ever needed to fly out there for business. He could stay in a hotel, sure, but something about selling his final piece of real estate on the east coast felt like saying goodbye to his only chance to be near Henry. Of course the boy was sixteen now, and more than capable of getting on a plane to the golden state all by his lonesome, and it was hardly like his moving permanently would be taking away any parenting he would otherwise have been receiving. 

Neal had never really been good at the parenting thing. He’d accepted it, and Killian had known it from the off. But he still wanted to be in Henry’s life, and the boy always let him. He forgave him and he would let him back in every single time. Neal had already been given far more chances than he deserved. 

Frankly, there are some things about the memory of Henry sprinting from room to room in this apartment, pressing his nose up against the glass and gawping at the New York skyline that have him more than reluctant to let it go. 

(Who says he isn’t sentimental?) 

Of course that particular line of thinking has him reaching for the glass of wine as he stands to answer the door, the phone call he’d received from Emma three days ago playing on his mind. Henry had gone to court, _god_. He can’t help but think, if he’d been around more, if California hadn’t happened then _maybe_ — 

He huffs out a breath, lets the thoughts slip free. They won’t do him any good now. Instead he fixes on a smile and opens the door. 

Only to see the very object of his musings standing on the doorstep. 

Fringe plastered to his forehead by rain and a small rucksack slung over his shoulder, Henry can almost look Neal in the eye with how tall he’s grown. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, offering the barest of shrugs. 

“Do you mind if I stay here a while?” 

Neal, unable to fathom what turn of events could have led to his son standing on his doorstep, can only nod mutely in response and stands back to let the boy through. 

A sense of unease settles in his gut; as pleased as he is to see him, this can’t be good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mother fic, 'the boy that stood by the sea' has been nominated for two Captain Swan Fanfic Awards - 'Best Emma' and 'Best Modern AU'. thanks to all who nominated it, I love you guys, and if you felt like voting you can do so here: http://csfanficawards.tumblr.com/
> 
> and come say hey on tumblr! @captainjayharkness


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please adhere to the content warning for this chapter: there are mentions of a previous miscarriage for Emma. While it is by no means the focus of the chapter, I understand it may turn some readers off, so know I adore and respect each of you regardless. <3 To those continuing I will say it is NOT graphic, and the mentions of it are minor but relevant to the story as a part of Emma and Killian’s past. I went back and forth for a while over whether to adjust these aspects in the narrative, but in the end decided to go forward to preserve the integrity of the story I’d like to tell. That said, fandom is a special place and I want everybody to feel safe and comortable while reading and sharing fic. 
> 
> I spend a lot of time in this ‘verse pushing my writing and these characters to places I’ve never gone before, and as always I appreciate every single ounce of support I’ve received. You guys are wonderful, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> PS, when you get to the end of this chapter and feel the urge to throw heavy objects at me, please remember I only ever deal in happy endings!!

Killian can’t stop thinking about trigonometry. 

Not in an interested fashion, no, he finds it difficult to even _feign_ interest in any sort of math beyond the basics, anything other than what he uses in his day to day life. Mainly where balancing the books at the Rabbit Hole is concerned. Yet there it is. Trig, just — again, and again, and again. Trig. The longest side of the triangle being the hypotenuse, the other two the adjacent and opposite sides. That’s about as far as his memory takes him, high school was such a long, long time ago. Sine, cosine. Tangent. Just _trig_. 

“Killian?”

What was he saying about tangents?

“Are you sure Henry didn’t say anything else to you last night? Anything that might be useful?”

The longest side of the triangle is the hypotenuse, that was what Killian had said when Henry had come to him asking for homework help. Trigonometry was kicking his ass, that’s what he’d told him, and he wanted a little assistance. But try as he might, Killian couldn’t wrap his head around the math. Sin, cos, tan. 

_I’m sorry, lad._

Useless. 

_It’s all Greek to me._

“He wasn’t here this morning,” Killian hears himself saying, although he feels like he’s a hundred miles away. Floating, suspended above his own body and squeezed into angles of sizes he can’t discern. “I told you, we had an argument last night about his not attending school so this morning I was going to drive him there myself. His door was locked from the inside.” 

Must’ve climbed out the window, clambered down the fire escape. It’s what Killian would have done — well. He’d certainly performed the similar when he was that age. 

_‘All Greek’, ha ha. Very funny._

“And you’re sure he didn’t just find another way into school?”

“We already called them, David.” Emma’s voice. “Henry isn’t there. Hasn’t been there for ten days, actually.”

Killian sits on the sofa in his living room, forehead pressed into his hands as he stares blankly at the carpet underneath. Cream. Emma’s insistence, the old one was worn and almost threadbare by the time she moved in, and even then it had taken another three years to get round to being rid of the damn thing. By now it had lost most of its softness, a few odd stains soiling it in places and, more recently, a track of boot imprints travelling from room to room. 

David had arrived in uniform, expression grave and concern imprinted in the curve of his brow with his deputy, Humbert, standing just over his shoulder. They’d immediately investigated Henry’s room for any clues relating to his disappearance, trawling through papers and drawers that he and Emma had already turned upside down once they realised he was missing. David keeps firing questions at him, a stickler for procedure. 

But Killian can’t stop thinking about trigonometry. 

He can’t stop thinking about trig and the first time Henry looked at him and realised he didn’t have all the answers. 

_Oh. Okay. I’ll just google it, then._

(Useless.)

_It’s all Greek to me._

“Listen, it’s early days yet,” David is assuring them, and Killian can feel Emma’s hand reach out and squeeze his shoulder, but he keeps his gaze on the floor. “The chances are he just spent the night at a friend’s house to cool off.” _And avoid you_ , the silence says, so Killian appreciates his friend not lending the thought a voice. “You’ve got the number for that Malcolm kid, and Grace; ask them if he’s there first. If you don’t have anything by this afternoon call me again and I’ll have everybody in the precinct on it — I promise.” 

David is as earnest as he always is, enough so that Killian lifts his head to meet his eye and offer a weak smile. 

Which side was the hypotenuse, again? 

“Thanks, David,” Emma says quietly, releasing Killian so she can walk he and Humbert to the door. If Killian had been in possession of all his faculties he might have bristled at the way Humbert’s gaze lingered unabashedly on the curve of her ass, but as it is all he can think about is the disappointed look in Henry’s eyes the day he couldn’t solve a blood trigonometry question. The way the corners of his mouth had dipped, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. All Killian can think about is the day he stopped being Henry’s hero.

_You are_ not _my dad_.

The words rattle around in his skull, occasionally bouncing off the rim of his bones before shattering into a thousand pieces and reassembling, an irritating little _rat-tat-tat_ like a burst of machine-gun fire. Not my dad, not my dad. Ten years of devoting his entire life to that boy, but never mind that — he isn’t the real dad. Never mind any of that, his highness Henry Cassidy has spoken. 

In a violent sort of cognitive abduction, visions of Emma now surge before his eyes, blood dripping from her hands and creating devastating stains on the lovely cream carpet. Scarlet is everywhere, it’s all he can see, her eyes are like black glass — 

_Don’t make me go through this again._

Then suddenly the sofa squeaks in protest as the real Emma drops down beside him, wrenching him unceremoniously from the rapid spiral of his thoughts. She slips her arm around his, linking them as she rests her head against his shoulder. Killian can slowly feel himself beginning to sink back into the real world, finds himself present enough to drop a feather-light kiss on her brow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and it’s the first thing he’s said since he found Henry’s bed unslept in at six o’clock this morning where he felt like he was inside his own body. Their boy ran away in the night and it’s all his fault. 

_You are not my dad._

“This isn’t on you,” Emma says back, fiercely. “And he’s a tough kid. I’m sure he’s fine.” 

Worry coils in his gut and he wants to vomit. Henry is _missing_ and all they’re trying to do is offer themselves useless clichés, how Henry can handle it, how he’s cooling off, how Killian blowing up at him the night prior apparently doesn’t make it his fault the boy ran away. 

God. He can’t do _anything_ right.

Especially not sodding _math_. 

Killian finds Emma’s hand and squeezes tight, then brings it up to his lips so he can place a kiss on the back of it. 

“I’m going to call Jefferson and Grace.”

He leaves her on the couch as he walks over to the kitchen, where he left his cell. Before he can even pick it up it begins to buzz, and Neal’s name illuminates the screen. An even greater guilt begins to churn in his stomach, mouth running dry as he tries to picture telling Neal about the fact that Henry is missing. By this point he’s too tired to even bother putting up a fight.

He slides his thumb across the screen to answer the call. “Yep?”

“He’s here — in New York. I’m sorry, you guys must be worried. I’ve got him.”

Relief rushes forth like a tsunami, a pressure that makes his legs tremble until they give way beneath him. 

-/-

Neal touches the screen to hang up the phone, an odd mixture of indignation and remorse each vying for control as he watches Killian’s name vanish from the screen. Henry had been missing since last night, _he_ knew that since the rain-soaked boy had turned up on _his_ doorstep, but since Emma and Killian had found him gone they hadn’t even thought to call him. They’d called the police before they bothered to check with his _father_ to see if he'd ended up there. Although perhaps in their position, he might’ve done the same. Neal wasn’t normally in New York, after all, they might’ve just forgotten that he’d flown out of California for the conferences spanning a couple of weeks. They couldn’t know about the missed calls on his phone, the unanswered texts.

_When are you coming home? x_

Another stellar example of Neal Cassidy knowing fucking _nothing_ at all. 

Like why the hell Henry had even come to him in the first place. Killian hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the phone— they’d had an argument, that was all he said. Neal’s suggestion that Henry stay with him for a few days, then, hadn’t exactly been frostily met, but it became clear it certainly wasn’t a welcome one. Still, he’d agreed. 

(That’s how Neal knows it must be bad — Killian didn’t even mention the boy missing school once.)

His phone buzzes once more across the countertop in the kitchen, and Neal glances at it briefly. 

_I miss you, Bae. x_

Before his stomach can twist itself too badly in knots, he hears the click of the lock from Henry’s old room. Neal busies himself with the breakfast preparation, dropping the bacon into the already sizzling pan and darting backwards to try and avoid any hot oil. When Henry emerges, he sees the boy has tried to squeeze himself into pyjamas a few sizes too small, and belatedly realises he must have forgotten to bring any with him and grabbed whatever was in his old room — the flannel top with the sword sewn into the chest is an item of clothing Neal hasn’t seen him wear for years. It aches, just a little. Especially when he sees the way it rides up to his stomach.

Henry has grown up just fine without him.

He masks his discomfort the same way he usually does; with humour.

“Jeez, Hen, the noughties called. They want that shirt back.”

Henry scowls. “Shut up. I forgot to bring mine.”

It doesn’t stop Neal from grinning. “You could have asked. You’re — what, nearly my height now? A little slimmer down below but I’m sure I’ve got something that’d fit better than _that_.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says, but it’s tight-lipped; a clear request to end the embarrassing line of conversation. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Candied bacon on toast.”

“Got any coffee?”

Neal turns, arching an eyebrow. “You drink coffee now?”

Henry shrugs, looking mildly defensive. “I always drank coffee.”

“Stuff’ll kill you, y’know that right?” Killian gave him that diatribe for years, back when they’d been living in the same city. It must have been Emma that got his kid into drinking it, then. 

“You drink it.” Henry points out.

“Some of us can’t function without performance enhancing substances.”

Henry merely spreads his hands, making a gesture at himself. In the tiny, sword-embroidered shirt, it’s beyond comical. Neal grins as he turns back to the food. 

By the time he thinks to bring up why they’re there, coffee brewed and bacon fried, they’re sitting across from each other at the island counter. It could’ve been any normal Friday, father and son sharing breakfast together in an apartment overlooking the city — except that it isn’t. He can’t ignore that. 

“So,” he starts, around a mouthful of toast. “You’re here.” 

Henry glances up from his breakfast only briefly. “Well observed.” 

“Spur of the moment thing?”

“Nope.” 

Emma liked to think she was all that, and maybe she was, always able to spot Neal or Henry in a lie during the time they’d been living together — her superpower, she’d called it. With his own son, Neal liked to think he had a superpower of his own. He could at least tell when Henry was lying through his teeth, if only because the boy was so bad at it. Avoiding eye contact, pushing his food aimlessly around his plate. Textbook. 

Neal tries to make his calling out a little playful. “You forgot your pyjamas.”

“I had a lot on my mind.” 

_What_ , he’s desperate to ask. Although the innerworkings of Henry’s thoughts have always been something of a mystery to him. 

“I called Killian and Emma,” Neal says, watching closely for his reaction. Barely perceptibly, the boy stiffens. “Told them where you are.”

Henry shovels more bacon into his mouth. “Very responsible of you.” 

Something about it feels like he’s being made fun of, but he lets it go. 

“Said you could stay here for a couple days. Sound good?”

Henry finally looks up, reaching for his coffee mug. Neal can practically hear the cogs turning behind his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Sounds great.” 

They finish eating in silence, Neal waiting to see if Henry will bring up why he’s there at all — they must have had a falling out, that’s all he can discern. Over what, he has no clue. Emma had seemed so chilled out about the boat thing, he couldn’t imagine it was anything to do with that, but he couldn’t think of anything else that lent logic to such a move from his son. Not that he isn’t appreciative, it fills him with all sorts of warmth that Henry sees him as somebody he can go to when he wants to weather a storm.

He just wishes he’d confide in him too. 

Waiting for information is like waiting for a stone to produce water. As Neal places the cutlery neatly on his plate, he finally decides to ask. 

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Wanna catch a movie?”

Neal barely has a chance to finish his sentence before Henry gives his suggestion — loudly. Henry’s eyes are wide, innocent almost, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s more than aware of it. After all, he picked up most of his tactics in diversion from Neal himself. Although he scrutinizes his son’s expression, it gives away nothing.

Neal takes a long moment to swallow the remaining dregs of his coffee.

Because fuck everything, his son wants to spend time with him. He can’t even remember why he’s trying to probe for information — who cares? He’s here. He’s here in New York with him, not Killian. Something inside him stirs that he’d tried to put to sleep a long time ago. These past ten years have never been a competition for Henry. 

But then, Neal has never won before.

“Yeah,” he finally says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Let’s catch a movie.”

-/-

Two lines. 

Two pink, vertical, faint (but almost certainly there) lines. 

Emma wishes the second line would fuck the hell off. 

The faint smell of urine pervaded the air over the usual sharp scent of disinfectant — Killian is always meticulous about making sure the bathroom is cleaned with the appropriate materials at least twice a week. She’d learnt a lot over their eight years of living together, particularly the fact that Killian liked everything to have its proper place. Only once it was _there_ , it took considerably less effort to move a mountain than it took convincing Killian to shift it somewhere else. The task of blending their lives together had been considerable to say the least, although it got a lot easier once she finally convinced him to let go of the faded, stained cream carpet in her third year of living there. 

_I like all its little imperfections. Gives it character._

_It’s a carpet, Killian. The only ‘character’ it should be having is of the Disney animated variety in Henry’s room._

They’d taken that carpet out too, eventually. 

(Emma can’t work out why she’s thinking about carpets in the face of some potentially monumental life altering news.)

There are very few occasions in her life that she can recall feeling genuine fear — the time she lost Henry in the crowd when they went to watch he Christmas lights turn on, before finding him perched atop the hotdog stand entertaining the vendor with his light up sword. When she first moved to Boston and realised she’d stolen the car of some bigshot businessman while he’d been lying in the backseat; her first meeting with Neal Cassidy. At seventeen when she’d heard her son crying in the delivery room and wasn’t sure she’d be brave enough to let him go. 

She counts now among those moments. 

Her hands grip the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles are stained the same shade of the porcelain, palms going numb from the coolness of the touch. She can’t do this, not again. Not when every other time she’s seen those two pink lines staring back at her it’s ended in heartbreak and torment. She forces herself to keep breathing, to let the air flow in and out as smoothly as it can as she tries to will that second line away; it persists, staring obnoxiously back at her next to the three other tests that complied obediently to her demands and came up negative. 

But one test is positive. Amid all the drama with Henry, it’s the last thing they need.

She can’t even privately admit the fact to herself, what those two pink lines might mean. That they weren’t careful enough, that despite everything life put them through it wanted to keep the punches rolling. They hadn’t even _talked_ about the possibility of kids in years. Not since — well. Not since the last time. 

Damn it. 

That familiar sting tugs at that space behind her nose, and she can see the sheen on her eyes begin to brighten in the mirror. She can’t. She can’t do this. She can’t do this on her own and Killian is a thousand miles away. Somewhere in New York with Henry, somewhere inside himself doubting and loathing and burying himself away where she can’t find him. 

She _needs_ him. 

There are three rapid knocks on the door. “Emma?”

Killian’s voice. 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she says, pleased that there isn’t a single wobble in her voice. She hurriedly sweeps the tests into the wastepaper basket, covering them up with a good foot or so of toilet roll, before pressing her heels into her eyes. She looks back into the mirror, blinking rapidly to try and erase any sign of the emotion slowly tearing away at her insides. 

To finish, she sprays around the room with the air freshener Killian leaves on the windowsill, hoping to leave no trace of the last half hour. 

When she emerges, Killian is sitting on the sofa flipping his way through a magazine, although he stands when he hears the click of the door. She allows herself a moment to admire the full image, the figure he can still cut in a tux no matter how much time passes. The navy shirt and black suit combination is one of her favourites, and despite everything she can’t help the thrill that runs through her. 

“You were a while,” he says, concern flickering across his brow, “everything alright?”

Emma merely offers a teasing grin. “You think _this_ ,” she gestures to her face and the subtle curls in her hair, “happens in five minutes?”

Killian’s answering smile is one of relief, as he leans in to press his lips to her cheek. The gesture loosens some of the tension in her chest. 

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” she tells him gently, “with everything going on — August will understand.” 

“Nonsense,” Killian waves her away. “It’s the launch of his first novel. He’d want you to be there.” 

“But I can go alone. I mean it.” 

He smiles like he doesn’t hear her, and the deep blue in his eyes is almost entirely vacant. “You get changed, I’ll just mill about here for a few minutes.” 

Emma changes her mind at the last moment about her dress choice — the one hung on the door to their closet is a conservative number, navy to compliment Killian’s suit, with a cinched waist that flared out to just above her knee. She’d been so happy when she found it, figuring she was thirty-three now and most of the dresses she still found comfortable were starting to make Henry _un_ comfortable; she’d heard the word MILF being thrown around his friends on the odd occasion. And while she chose to take it as a compliment, the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass Henry. Striking a balance between that and wearing things that made her feel confident and attractive had become something of a challenge in recent years. Something at which Killian had privately voiced his own protests.

Given Henry was supposed to have been joining them at August’s book launch, tonight’s dress is demure, yet lovely. 

Emma discards it in favour of something shorter. An old favourite, the pink bodycon dress she had worn on her first official date with Killian. Although the hemline is a little higher than what is probably decent for a simple book launch, she wants something that’ll get his attention. At the very least, distract him from Henry’s whereabouts for just a night, and grab something of her boyfriend back.

Maybe she just wants something that’ll distract her, too. 

_Two pink lines._

When she steps back into the sitting room, tugging self-consciously at the hem, Killian is nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door is open, and a cup of tea just brewed lay untouched on the counter in the kitchen. It’s only as she passes back down the hall that she realises where he is — Henry’s room. Emma’s heart clenches painfully as she peeks around the door, observes him running an absent hand along the desk. Suddenly the dress seems silly and immature when confronted with his melancholy.

Gently, she knocks on the door to alert him of her presence. “Hey, sailor.”

He turns quickly as if she’d startled him, and almost instantly she watches as his eyes drop from her face to rest of her figure. His lips part, pupils blowing wide as his gaze lands on her upper thigh, and Emma knows a pleased flush must be colouring the skin near her collarbone, and she can’t quite suppress the immediate smile at his scrutiny. She can’t help it. It’s the most present he’s been for weeks, watching her as if it were the first time he’d seen her in just as long — like a starved man staring at an oasis, trying to discern if it’s real. 

“Emma, you look…” 

She smirks, cocking her hand on her hip in a joking pose. He follows the movement closely. “I know.” When he manages to tear his gaze away he moves to shut a drawer that had been hanging open. Emma steps cautiously inside. “What’re you doing in here?”

His cheeks redden with what she can only assume is guilt, and his hand moves to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tick she had identified a long time ago. 

“I just wanted to, ehm…” Killian waves a hand as Emma reaches him, touching a hand to his arm reassuringly. Finally, he sighs. “He didn’t take any of his pyjamas. Or he forgot them, I don’t know. And he only took two changes of clothes. I thought it might mean he was only — or, well, I’m probably overthinking…” He trails off, letting out a long breath. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“You’re not,” she says quietly, rubbing his arm soothingly. “But he’s safe, alright? He’s with Neal. He’ll be well looked after. I mean, he’ll be sleeping naked, but that’s something of a rite of passage for a sixteen-year-old anyway.” 

At her jest he allows a small grin to push through, and loops his arms around her to pull her in for a gentle hug. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She almost tells him right that second, as he rests his chin on her shoulder and his arms tighten around her. A wave of nausea suddenly surges upwards, her heart plummeting at the thought of adding to his burden, of getting themselves into an argument or forcing him to come back to her when he needs to do it on his own. 

She’s just — sad. 

Her arms squeeze him a little tighter, and he drops a kiss onto the curve of her shoulder. “You really do cut quite the figure in this dress.”

A thrill runs through her at the compliment, and she turns her head to press her lips to his cheek in gratitude. 

“And it’s not the one you left hanging on our closet, either.” 

Her entire body hums at the timbre of his voice, suddenly far gravellier than it had been only moments before. He kisses her shoulder again, only this time he lets his lips linger on her bare skin. Emma’s nerves become highly attuned to that particular spot. 

“Very perceptive of you,” she murmurs, brushing a hand across his shoulders to linger at the back of his neck, twirling her finger into hair at the nape the way she knows starts to get him riled up. 

She just wants to _not_ feel sad. Just for now. 

Killian hisses in response, slowly beginning to move, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses all the way to her collarbone. Once there, he nips gently at her pulse point and her heart rate immediately begins to accelerate. She can’t remember the last time they had sex — hell, or the last time they even bothered to make out — and her body’s reaction to Killian’s ministrations is instantaneous. A fog of arousal curls through her, and she finds herself tugging his head up so she can crash her lips into his. 

Like he’s read her mind his lips immediately part, tongue thrusting its way into her mouth so he can deepen the kiss, his hands skimming down her back until one of them lands on her ass. Emma audibly gasps, arching into him and she can feel a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. His mouth continues to slant against hers, even as his hand drops lower in an attempt to lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, and Emma eagerly moves to assist him. 

_God_ , the sex with him is good. It always has been. Never with anyone else has she been as satisfied emotionally and physically as she is with Killian — it’s her proof, she’d decided that long ago. Some divine testimony to her let her know that _this_ is right, _this_ is perfect, that there isn’t any other time she’ll find herself in greater synchronisation with another person than when she is making love to Killian Jones.

It only takes the barest touches of his calloused hands for heat to have shot right to her core, her body already gearing itself up for the sensations she knows that he can awake in her, and if the stiffness pressed into her thigh is any indication she is doing the same to him. Emma takes one of her hands from his hair so she can palm him through his trousers and he groans into her mouth, doubling his efforts to get her dress out of the way. It’s frantic and it’s scorching but she’s horny and he’s _here_ , he’s in this moment racing right along with her and it’s the first time he’s felt tangible in days. 

Emma reaches hurriedly for his belt, fiddling with the clasp as quickly as she can until the abruptness of her movement overbalances her. With her body pressed as close to Killian’s as possible, her centre of gravity is higher and she stumbles, tugging him with her by the front of his pants. Their combined weight knocks backwards into something solid, and as a few objects crash onto the floor she’s wrenched immediately from whatever heady moment had overtaken them. 

This is _Henry’s_ room. 

She releases Killian and he mirrors the action, puffing out a few quick breaths and running a hand through his hair. Emma can spot the moment he realises just where they are and what they’d almost gotten carried away with; the furrow that had been at his brow for weeks returns with a heavy frown. 

“I — sorry,” he says, and it’s so despondent that it makes her heart clench. Her pulse is still thudding in her ears, the tightness of her arousal lingering and she distracts herself by stooping to pick up the items they’d knocked to the ground. “I don’t know quite what —”

She knows she’s being silly. It just feels like he’s apologising for touching her. As if stepping outside of his gloom, even for her, is unforgivable. 

He kneels down to help, ever the considerate one, and emotion springs to her eyes, making her jump back to her feet as quickly as she can manage in her heels.

“I think I’ll change,” she says, and she forces some humour into her voice, “wouldn’t want some publisher walking in on — well. That.”

She knows he’s watching her retreat in confusion, but she ignores him and hurriedly swipes at her eyes as she leaves the room. He’s gone, again. Lost. There are one positive and three negative pregnancy tests stuffed at the bottom of the wastepaper basket in the bathroom and Killian Jones is five fucking universes away.

Ten seconds ago she was horny, and now she’s miserable.

Fucking _hormones_. 

-/-

Killian is only a little sorry to see her return in the navy dress she was originally planning on wearing, but can’t quite find the words to remark on it — it’s like his usual easy access to teasing, lascivious remarks has been entirely cut off, like there’s a part of himself that he can’t quite get to. She watches him like she’s almost expecting him to comment, and perhaps she is. In that case, he disappoints them both.

Instead he fumbles with an excuse about needing to freshen up before they can leave (there’s a goddamn innuendo in there too, but it sits just out of the reach of speech) and slips into the bathroom, trying to work out what exactly happened just now — or didn’t. 

They’d nearly bloody _banged_ in Henry’s room. Something inside him had gone from nought to lusting rogue in less than ten seconds and he’s still reeling from the speed of the transformation. 

He’d been waiting for her to change when it suddenly occurred to him that Henry might need a few things while he was at Neal’s; how were they to know how productively he’d packed? Then before he realised it he’d been rifling through drawers and taking inventory of his belongings. Perhaps unconsciously he’d been looking for a distraction from the morose turn of his thoughts and then she’d walked in, looking like _that_ and sodding well knowing she did and it had spiralled out of control. 

Come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time they made love. Before all this business with Henry, surely. 

And she was disappointed, he knows that much. 

Emma has never been difficult for him to understand. They’ve always employed a policy of complete honesty — but then, he’s not sure he can expect her to be transparent with him when he knows he’s been holding things back. Like just how much Henry’s acting out has shaken his confidence. As a guardian, as a partner, inadequacy swells from every turn. He can’t tell her he’d rather sink himself into a bottle of rum than look her in the eye and own up to his failure. She deserves better, Henry deserves better. 

Maybe he’s _found_ better. With Neal. 

Killian can’t get Emma’s crestfallen expression out of his mind — he knows he’s letting her down, he just can’t work out what he’s doing. What he’s _not_ doing. It makes him want to panic, his breathing seizing at the idea of losing her, and the only goddamn person in the world he has always turned to with problems in his relationship with Emma is a state away and not talking to him.

He _just_ wants to talk to Henry. 

Killian sits on the lid of the toilet, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cell and brings up the boy’s number. He rubs his eyes tiredly and hits dial before he can talk himself out of it. 

It rings. 

And it rings, and it rings. 

And the longer it rings, the lower his heart sinks, and his eyes begin to sting and he doesn’t even bother trying to stop the emotion from spilling down his cheeks. He just wants Henry. His best friend. His hero, his conscience, more often than not the only thing in his life that makes a lick of sense. 

_Hi, this is Henry, if you leave your number and a message I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Or, I won’t. Depends if I like you or not. If this is Grace, you owe me twelve dollars._

Click.

He takes a shuddering breath.

“Please, bug. I’m sorry. Just come home.”

-/-

It’d been a strange day, to say the least. 

To start Neal had called in sick to work — perhaps not that responsible, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. How often did his boy take a nearly four-hour train journey to turn up at his doorstep in the middle of the night? Henry had never really asked him for much, but this he could at least do. They’d spent most of the morning on Neal’s old 360 (something the boy had ripped into him endlessly about for not upgrading to the Xbox One — Neal couldn’t quite find the words to explain the only person he’d ever played video games with was him), waiting for showings at the cinema a few blocks away to become more frequent. 

Evenings in New York have always been his favourite time of day; the sky scarcely had a chance to fall dark before it was entirely lit in effervescent light, whites and blues and neon yellows carrying the city through until morning. If anything, it felt more alive the closer the rest of the world drew to sleep. 

Neal had ushered Henry into one of his favourite pizza places, urging him to look past the fizzling red sign out front, some letters blanked out and others sparking dangerously while waiting to disappear entirely. 

“Best pizza in New York,” he’d promised, and he’d meant it. 

The diner is lit in a bleak orange, and Henry stares doubtfully down at the boxes Neal puts down before gingerly helping himself to a slice. After he takes his first bite and lets out a loud noise of satisfaction, his father takes it as victory.

“I still can’t believe you wanted to see _La La Land_ ,” Henry says around a mouthful, throwing him an amused look. 

Neal shrugs. “Was it or was it not a triumph of cinema?”

“It was cheesy.” 

“You liked it,” Neal teases, taking a bite of his own slice. 

Henry wrinkles his nose, attempting to look nonchalant. “It was a _romance_.” 

“What about those fairy-tales you used to love so much?” Neal points out. Henry used to spend hours pouring over that storybook of his, nothing could tear him away. “I figured you’d have a hard-on for true love.” 

“You’re gross.” 

“I am,” Neal grins, offering one of the boxes towards his son, “onion ring?”

“Please,” Henry reached across to take one. “I just didn’t realise _you_ were such a romantic.” 

It’s easy. It feels like the earth is about to start spinning backwards or the undead are going to start crawling out of manhole covers, but bantering with Henry is the easiest thing in the world. At somepoint while he wasn’t looking the boy had turned sixteen, near enough to adulthood to keep up with him. Neal isn’t mincing his words or trying to work out what’s appropriate to be said around a child, he’s just — himself. Some irrational part of him wishes Henry could have just been born this way. Fully grown, ready to be his pal. That sure would’ve made life easier. 

“Are you kidding? I’m the most romantic guy you know.” Doubtful, but he says it anyway. 

Henry takes a long slurp from his carton of coke. “How are things going with Tink, anyway?”

Neal’s heart leaps into his throat under Henry’s keen eyes. God, he can’t own up to anything. Not like this. 

“They’re great — yeah, they’re pretty great.” He keeps his eyes averted, just in case Henry can spot something in them he doesn’t want to reveal. At least not yet. Christ knew there was somebody awake under Henry’s veneer. 

When he looks up he sees the boy is watching him closely. “And she’s okay with you being away from home for so long?”

“It’s work, buddy,” he hastens to say, “it’s not like I’m doing it because I want to.” 

How many times had he said that to Henry while he was growing up?

He’s saved from any further pursuit of that line of questioning by a loud buzz, and both their gazes are drawn to Henry’s phone as it begins to vibrate against the table top. 

‘ _Killian calling…_ ’

Neal’s eyes immediately flicker up to Henry’s, but once the boy observes just what is making his cell phone ring he makes a point of ignoring it, paying special attention to his slice of pizza. It continues to thrum between them for a number of seconds, Neal waiting to see just what his son will do — if anything. It leaves a sour sort of sensation in his gut when he realises it may be nothing. 

“You gonna answer that?” he asks lightly. 

Henry’s response is impassive. “Nope.”

Neal hesitates, just long enough for the phone to stop ringing. 

‘ _Killian Jones: new voicemail message (1)_.’

“C’mon, Henry,” Neal says, trying to urge him gently into talking. “You can’t just freeze him out.” His son merely shrugs, using the food in his mouth as a reason not to speak. “What happened?”

Henry shakes his head, a frown pulling his features together as he swallows. “Can we just do something?”

“What?”

“Can we just be us?” Henry pleads, his eyes wide and imploring. Neal already feels his resolve start to weaken. “No outsider talk. Just you and me Dad, like the old days. Can we do that?”

Neal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but far be it him to deny the sixteen-year-old anything he ever wanted. That had never exactly been his strong suit. 

“I… yeah, okay.” It feels dirty even as he agrees to it. “No outsider talk. Cassidy Crew only.” 

Henry grimaces. “Please, never say _Cassidy Crew_ again.”

Some semblance of the earlier lightness returns, and Neal lets it wash over him. 

“Emma Stone would let me say what I liked,” he grumbles as petulantly as he can manage. 

“Emma Stone gave up on love for fame,” Henry points out. “I thought you were a romantic?”

Neal lets out a loud groan. “You literally missed the whole point of the movie.”

Just then the table begins to vibrate again, and although they both turn to Henry’s phone he’s surprised to see the screen still inky black — it’s Neal’s own cell that’s buzzing now. 

‘ _Tink calling…_ ’

Neal practically leaps to reject the call, hoping Henry didn’t have a chance to glimpse the screen before it turned dark again. When he looks up and sees Henry’s eyebrow arched (in an almost perfect imitation of Killian Jones that makes his chest tighten), he knows he wasn’t successful. 

“Things are ‘great’, huh?” his son says dryly. 

Neal scowls. “I thought we said no outsider talk?”

This Henry reluctantly concedes, and returns to his dinner. 

-/-

_The door to their apartment is unlocked and that already sets off warning bells in Killian’s mind._

_“Emma?” he calls, frantically. “Emma?”_

_He pushes open all the doors, a hurricane of panic and hysteria, but he can’t calm down. Not after that phone call, not after the utter desperation in her plea._

_“Emma?”_

_It’s then he notices something deep crimson seeping out from the door of the bathroom and his heart fills with dread. His feet are moving before his mind can catch up and he has flung open the doorway before he can even think — and she’s there._

_Everything is stained scarlet, it’s all he sees._

_Her eyes are like black glass._

-/-

Killian wakes already gasping for air. 

Heat impresses upon him from every direction, and for a moment he thinks Emma must be huddled in close to his side, but as he slowly rouses himself and looks sideways he sees her curled up on the other side of the bed, facing away from him. The sheet is pooled down to his waist and a sheen of sweat covers his chest and abdomen, rapidly rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. _That_ dream again. The horror of a memory that for some reason has designs on worming its way back into his thoughts recently. 

He considers reaching for Emma, circling an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss into her shoulder, begging her to let him absorb some of her light. His left hand lingers in the space between them, wanting. He doesn’t move it any closer. Instead he sits up, pushes the cover back as gently as he can and pads towards the hallway, avoiding the creaky floorboards in the process. Something between them is already fragile, he doesn’t care to touch it in case it shatters entirely. 

The clock on the DVR tells him it’s only half-past midnight; he’d scarcely squeezed in a couple hours sleep before the nightmare roused him to wakefulness. He goes about his normal routine, stopping in the bathroom to splash some water on his face to cool down, then heads down the hallway to his study and grabs a few inventory forms to bring out into the sitting room. It’d be a lot easier to complete at the Rabbit Hole, but he’s gotten used to working from memory — he enjoys the distraction. Once he’s worked out just what they’re running low on he can submit an order for more to Jefferson, who’ll pass it along to their suppliers. 

He snags a glass and the bottle of rum they keep in one of the upper cabinets, pouring himself a generous measure to take over to the couch with the paperwork. As an afterthought, he grabs the bottle too. He lets the cold, white light from the kitchen illuminate where he’ll be working, choosing not to switch on any of the lamps in the sitting room — he knows the glare from those reaches far under their bedroom door, and he doesn’t wish to wake Emma. Not when all he’s doing is trying to distract himself enough from seeing her face, ashen white, while he dreams.

He works in the near dark, keeping his rum intake measured but consistent, only wanting to reach that warm, contended state that would allow him to fall asleep far easier, his mind fogged and tired and out before his head hits the pillow. After an hour, he hears the click of their bedroom door and looks up as Emma steps into view, pulling the knot on her dressing gown tight and taking in the room curiously. 

Her eyes find his and he tries to smile, like none of it is out of the ordinary. 

“What are you doing up?”

Killian gestures towards the paperwork laid out on the coffee table. “Just, ah, going over some stuff for the Rabbit Hole.” 

Her eyebrow arches. “In the dark?”

“Just thought I’d… conserve,” he offers weakly. At her disbelieving look he shrugs. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Ah, I see,” her knowing gaze lands on the glass and the bottle as she steps around the sofa, dropping down into one of the armchairs. “A midnight rum party. Where was my invite?”

She’s in a confrontational mood, he can spot it from a mile off; ten years with this woman has taught him that tone of voice is as much of a challenge as it is an observation. 

“Just go back to bed, Emma,” he says quietly, silently begging her to leave him in peace. 

He makes a show of picking up another sheet of paper and making a few needless scribbles with his pen. A dismissal, calling her bluff. She doesn’t waver. 

“No. We need to talk.” 

Killian doesn’t lift his eyes from the paper. “About what?”

“Henry.”

Finally, he sighs, rubbing an eye tiredly and dropping the sheet back onto the table top. He forces a bright smile, hoping it’ll be enough to sidestep her ‘superpower’, as she liked to call it. 

“You said it yourself, Swan,” he shrugs, “the lad is fine.” 

“But you’re not.” 

He’s not. 

Emma crosses her legs. A distracting action at any other time he is sure, but he can’t bring himself to really let his eyes rake over her form. Not tonight. 

So he merely meets her gaze evenly. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been moping around here for days,” she starts, and the challenge is dropped for something altogether more — tender, almost. Concern. “Weeks, even. You don’t sleep, you barely eat. You know August went around telling people you hadn’t _read_ the book because of how miserable you looked the other night?”

“It wasn’t that good anyway,” he bites. 

Emma narrows her eyes. “You’re upset, so I’m going to let your casual insult of my friend go by.” 

Killian sighs. A heavy, languid thing, and he can feel the effects of the rum urging him to shut his eyes, to not listen to her — not now. He _just_ wants to not feel exhausted anymore. Then he can talk to her. Then he can talk to her and not see the horrified, contorted version from his nightmares. 

“What is it you want, Emma?” he asks tiredly. “I’m too knackered for a fight.”

“I want you to get a grip,” she says, and although the words are harsh they’re spoken gently. “Stop beating yourself up, slinking off to drink rum in the middle of the night, this isn’t… _you_.” He considers lashing something about him begging to differ, but it’s the taste of alcohol lingering around his loosened tongue that prevents him — he knows better than to add fuel to her fire. “Kids can be hard, okay? They can be ungrateful and they bite back, but you can’t let it totally knock you out like this.” 

Her words are like ash, noiselessly blowing over him. They mean nothing. 

“ _Kids_ are ungrateful, yes,” he says, and he knows it sounds petulant before he’s even finishes his sentence, “Henry isn’t.” 

“That’s because Henry isn’t a boy, he’s an angel in human form,” she clicks her tongue, “the last few weeks notwithstanding.” It lingers in the air for a few moments, so Killian boldly reaches forward to screw off the cap of the bottle with one hand, letting it drop to the table as he splashes rum into his glass. Emma watches the movement closely. “You had a fight,” she continues, “so what? Just… let him be a teenager without taking it so hard, please.”

He takes a long gulp because he doesn’t know how he can explain it to her. He doesn’t know how he can make her understand the creature that’s taken up residence inside him, this unwavering tide of inadequacy that claws at his heart for every moment Henry isn’t there. He doesn’t know how to make her see that he isn’t _enough_ , he _can’t_ be enough; there aren’t sufficient nuances of language to explain how _not enough_ he is for every single second the boy is in New York. With his real father. Making his own choices. 

He can’t tell her he knows he isn’t enough for her, either. She’s too good, too kind, she’d dispute him if he dared give the errant thought voice, and that would only hurt more. It’s only a matter of time before she reaches the same conclusion, that she can have what she needs outside of him, until she leaves and takes the final piece of his heart with her. 

Fear suffocates him. Every minute, every second. Every breath. He isn’t _taking it hard_ , as she so plainly put it, he’s shattering, and it doesn’t stop, won’t stop, not until he’s little more than sand against the earth below. 

He drains the glass because he doesn’t know how to make her see. 

“I have given that boy _everything_ ,” he says, and he knows his voice cracks as he sets the glass back down. His heart, his life. “Since before he could even open his bloody eyes, I was there, I have been there for him through every sodding thing.”

“What, and I haven’t?”

He’ll later blame the rum, but the truth is he was wound so tight there was no other way for the coil to spring. It's a misdirection of anger, of his frustration, but she's the only target the darkness can find.

“Not for all of it,” he snaps, “no.” 

Emma blinks, taken aback, and for the hurt that flickers across her jade eyes he regrets it immediately after he says it. If he could snatch the words back from where he’d so carelessly spit them, he would, but he can’t; so he waits with bated breath for her response, studiously keeping his gaze locked on the table. 

“So these last ten years…” She can barely get the sentence out past her astonishment. “Mean nothing?”

Killian winces. “I didn’t say that.” 

“My role in Henry’s life is worth less than yours, is that it?” She’s angry now, but then that had always been her instinct — to take what hurts her and make it her strength. He just wishes she wouldn’t turn it on him, not when all he wants is to shut his eyes and not think about anything. 

“Stop twisting my words,” he protests.

Emma scoffs, folding her arms and dropping back in the chair. “You’re worse than Neal.” 

Killian’s gaze snaps back to hers, trying to discern if she means it. Because he _is_ worse than Neal, he’s already trying to reconcile himself with being an inferior alternative to that man, but he doesn’t want to be told it. Not by her, not when she’s saying it to hurt him. One look at her steely green eyes and he knows she meant it to sting. They know each other so well; they know exactly how to make each other bleed. 

Whatever tenuous control he had over himself ruptures. 

“You know what?” he starts. “You’re so relaxed about the whole business, him being in New York, so maybe he _does_ mean less to you than I.” 

He doesn’t wait for her response this time, springing angrily to his feet and snatching the bottle and the glass before stalking in the direction of the kitchen. Emma is hot on his heels and he knows he has to start bracing himself for a fight; she’d never take a remark like that lying down.

“How _dare_ you?” she growls from his shoulder, refusing to let him escape as he enters the room. “I’m not falling apart because unlike you, I know what it’s like to _be_ that kid!” Killian storms over to the sink, slamming the glass inside and begins methodically putting away their washed dishes from a few hours earlier, anything to keep his hands busy so he doesn’t have to look at her. “To feel lost and helpless and like you need to fight your way out! That even when you’re surrounded by people taking care of you, it’s easier to act out, to take and take not give a shit who you hurt.”

Killian sets his jaw, he _knows_ this. He knows about the way she was brought up, but he can’t find her experiences and Henry’s comparable in any way, not when Henry _always_ had people who loved him. 

“Kids need to make mistakes, Killian! It’s how they find out what matters to them — it’s the only way they learn!” 

“If that’s the way you feel then I’m glad we never had kids of our own.” 

Apparently, he can’t hold anything back tonight. 

_Don’t make me go through this again._

She’s silent for a number of seconds so he turns, folding his arms and resting on the kitchen counter, his entire posture closed and tense. Emma stands with wide eyes a few feet away, one hand probably unconsciously fiddling with the knot on her dressing gown. 

“Is… what?” she gets out, expression scrunching in confusion. From her cheeks all the way down to her breastbone, an angry flush lingers on the surface of her skin, and apparently his one-eighty has thrown whatever furious diatribe she was about to lay on him completely off course. She blinks in disbelief. “Are you seriously bringing that up _now?_ ”

_Everything is stained scarlet, it’s all he sees._

_Her eyes are like black glass._

“Let’s say it’s been on my mind.” 

Emma still appears entirely nonplussed by the turn of conversation. “Did you even _want_ kids?”

“Of course I wanted kids!” Killian bursts, and he’s angry now although he doesn’t really know at whom. He’s frustrated and he’s _tired_ and he’s fed up of being the only loser in this situation. “I just added it to the long list of things I was giving up because I wanted to be with you!” 

Emma gapes. “Long — like _what?_ ” 

“I wanted to marry you,” he fires off instantly, throwing an arm out widely, “and I gave up on that.” 

“How is that _my_ fault?” Emma retorts indignantly. “ _You_ never asked!” 

“Well I knew how you felt about the whole concept after Neal, so I had an inkling about how you might respond.” 

Somewhere in his foggy, irate mind, he knows he’s treading dangerously close to a line he’s never touched before, an imperceptible divide between what is right and what is easy. Giving voice to these desires, these hidden, desperate things, is never something he planned on doing — Emma always meant more to him than all of them. And he’s never blamed her, not for a millisecond, but the idea that if he’d just asked he could’ve had everything is a little too much for him right now. Not while the world is off balance, not when nothing feels right and he keeps saying things he doesn’t mean.

He’s just _hurt_. And he wants to not feel this way.

“You seem to know a lot about what I’d say for someone who’s never consulted me,” Emma says, her voice low and dangerous. “And as for kids? I did _not_ tell you to put something like that off the table, don’t you dare pin that on me!” 

“You _did_ , Emma!” 

_Don’t make me go through this again._

The acrid air. A fervent plea. 

“The day you…” Killian’s heart stutters to a stop. He can’t even bring himself to say it. The words crumble like dust in his mouth before they can fully form. His breathing comes shallower and he knows he’s broken their unspoken pact; to never mention it, to never confront it, but he’s thrown it out there ugly and sad and there’s nothing he can do to take it back. “You said… you asked me not to put you through it again.” His voice is weaker now, the fight entirely draining from him and leaving him feeling boneless and frail. “So I…” His voice cracks. “Didn’t.”

He knows the moment understanding dawns, knows when he sees her jade eyes flash, watches as the colour fades from her cheeks and she swallows.

Killian had lived his life by her whispered plea, only wanting her happiness above all else. He’d thought that was _how_ she would be happy.

_Had he been wrong?_

Emma turns from him, blonde hair falling around her face as she touches the counter for support. Her expression is now shielded from him, and he thinks his chest is going to implode for the length of her pause. His heart hammers so loudly in his chest that he feels she must be able to hear it. 

He licks his lips, nerves reaching their breaking point. “Emma?”

Without a word, she whirls around and walks out. 

It takes him a split second to follow, finding her in the hallway rummaging through the coats hanging by the door, and only emerging when he hears the metallic jingle of her keys. 

“Emma —”

She holds up a hand to stop him from making a move towards her. “I... I can’t even look at you right now.”

She shrugs on her coat and zips on her boots, and with the hem of her dressing gown the only fabric between them she looks ridiculous, even given the circumstances. 

“Where are you going?” It was nearly two in the morning in the middle of January.

“Don’t you dare call me.” 

The door opens quietly, and is shut again before he can muster up a response. 

The silence rings around the apartment. The inventory forms are still strewn across the coffee table, a circle of condensation visible from where the bottle had been resting, a coaster momentarily discarded in his distraction. Like a train that couldn’t break in time before the tracks gave way, he feels suspended in the air, almost as if when his mind catches up he’ll crash into the ground.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out he handled that badly.

For a long time he just stands there, waiting. Seeing if she’ll come back. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, his mind almost completely numb in the aftermath. 

Then he sits. The clock on the DVR reads 2:15am.

He doesn’t move until the sky turns pale pink with the early morning light. 

-/-

At around 2:15am, as the sound of traffic from the outside filters in and a single slither of artificial light escapes through a crack in his blinds, Henry finally gives in and reaches for his cell. Before he can think better of it he dials up his voicemail. 

“ _Please, bug. I’m sorry. Just come home._ ”

Unable to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, with everything he knew over two-hundred miles away? 

Fuck, he wants nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dodges heavy objects* it's all uphill from here folks, I promise!

**Author's Note:**

> and come say hey on tumblr! @captainjayharkness


End file.
